


I don't care who hears us

by TeaHouseMoon



Series: The Vanilla Kinks series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John loves Sherlock's nipples, John/Sherlock's Nipples, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Nipple Licking, Nipple Play, Nipples, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Sex, but also sweet?, but with feelings, filth I tell you, let's face it I can't write pure filth, seriously this is just filth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 01:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5072815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaHouseMoon/pseuds/TeaHouseMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's hand touches Sherlock's cheekbone - Sherlock opens his eyes, they're hazy -  and then slides lower to stroke his jaw, the right side of his throat, his collarbone; his breast, above his T-shirt; his right nipple. John's thumb lingers there, lightly, for a couple of seconds but the little nub peaks up; so responsive. So, so responsive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I don't care who hears us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MapleleafCameo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/gifts).



> This fic was inspired by a Twitter conversation with the lovely @MapleLeafCameo and, well, Sherlock's nipples. Because John loves them.

The sound of their breathing is loud, rhythmic. 

In, out. In, out. 

Sherlock tries to keep up, knows that he can't hold his breath, especially when they're kissing so deeply; but it's not easy, and John knows that all he wants to do is stop, and just feel John breathe, feel his tongue caress his own, feel him change the angle of the kiss, guide their mouths as they move together. But Sherlock remembers what John taught him - _breathe, breathe._

John licks against his tongue, then pulls back, just a little, to open his mouth a little wider and bite at Sherlock's lower lip, his teeth gently sinking in, pulling. Sherlock grunts softly under his breath, wants John to kiss him properly again; chases his mouth with his own when he pulls back once again, and John smiles playfully, looks as Sherlock tries to find his mouth again with his eyes closed.

He gives him a closed-mouth peck to appease him, and then leans back a little more so that only the lower part of their bodies are touching, his pelvis pushed against Sherlock as the younger man half-sits, half-leans back against the kitchen table. John's hand touches Sherlock's cheekbone - Sherlock opens his eyes, they're hazy - and then slides lower to stroke his jaw, the right side of his throat, his collarbone; his breast, above his T-shirt; his right nipple. John's thumb lingers there, lightly, for a couple of seconds but the little nub peaks up; so responsive. Sherlock inhales sharply - so, so responsive - and John looks up, looks at the surprised expression in his eyes, smiles. His right hand strokes up Sherlock's left arm to his shoulder, then down, over his shirt, to his left nipple; all five fingers stroke over it - it peaks up, _ah, so lovely_ \- then the thumb rests over it, not moving - just resting.

John leans in to kiss Sherlock again, this time pushes against him with a bit more insistence so that Sherlock has to lean back, and support himself with his hands planted behind him on the table. John's thumbs move in unison - up, down, up, down - over the little peaks of the nipples. 

Up. Down. Up. Down. 

Sherlock moans in his mouth, hiccups a breath; John growls back in response, really low in his throat.

He breaks the kiss, then looks down, at Sherlock's chest, at his own hands wrapped around both sides of Sherlock's ribcage and his thumbs on his nipples, mirroring each other. Sherlock stands still, his hands still planted behind himself, his lower back propped against the table, legs open just wide enough for John to stand between them. His eyes are closed, his breath still laboured but quiet now, as if he is concentrating. John leans in, kisses him right where the collarbones meet, that vulnerable hollow of skin; then his hands all of a sudden slide down to Sherlock's waist, grab the hem of the t-shirt and pull it up, slowly but firmly so that Sherlock knows he wants it off. One arm comes up, then the other; curls ruffle in the process, but John doesn't even smile. He throws the shirt over the chair by the table and then bends down, kisses Sherlock right in the middle of his chest, over his heart, lips lingering and feeling the steady throb under the warm warm skin. Sherlock shivers; John kisses lower, then up again, slowly - _kiss. Kiss. Kiss._

He looks up; Sherlock is gazing down at him, his eyes at half-mast. John kisses again - this time, near his nipple. Smiles when he hears Sherlock inhale sharply; kisses again. Sherlock's nipples are small, light brown, with the barest hint of short, dark hair - really, one or two - gracing the areola. The skin all around is so smooth, so warm - while the actual nipple is puckered, the surface creased beautifully as the nub beads up. John's tongue gives a tiny lick just under the nipple - _lick, lick_ ; then flattens, and strokes around, around it, slow, _mmmmh_. The low growl of John's voice accompanies the movement; it's an encouragement, and a warning.

 _Lick; lick._ John looks up one last time; then finally moves his mouth over the nipple. Licks first - _delicious_ ; licks again - Sherlock's chest gives a little jolt; then, John sucks. 

Sherlock cries out, sharply, in surprise but also because John is sucking hard, his teeth pressed in, just the edges, against the nipple, it feels like a hundred tiny pinpricks against the sensitive skin there. John sucks, sucks, releases, then sucks again, harder. Above him, Sherlock cries out once more, and John feels the muscles of his chest shudder, feels like they almost want to buck him off, and Sherlock's head falls forward on his neck. John licks again, all over the surface of the nipple, _slowly_ , bathes it in his saliva thoroughly, massages it with his tongue; then sucks again. It tastes good, it feels good; he wants to do it for hours. 

His other hand is still wrapped around the other side of Sherlock's ribcage and his thumb still resting over his other nipple. John wants to move it, but he doesn't think Sherlock is ready yet for that. 

He gives another slow lap; then he takes the little nub between his teeth, and pulls, just very gently, but the nipple is so sensitive right now that he knows it feels almost painful. He pulls - _just a little more_ \- and Sherlock cries out, eyes scrunched up closed, jaw tight, his hips buck up, just once but firmly against John's. John's thumb skims over the other nipple; Sherlock's hips spasm again. 

"John...", Sherlock mumbles, head still hung forward and eyes still closed. John can't resist him and so he leans up once again and kisses him, tastes the arousal-hot, swollen mouth, guides a kiss that's uncoordinated because Sherlock is trembling and wound so tight. As they kiss, he strokes his thumbs over both nipples at the same time; Sherlock breaks the kiss, cries out again, bucks up again against John. The bulge in his thin pyjama bottoms is so evident, firm; John pushes his own clothed erection back against him, against his lower belly, revels on how large it feels against the cradle of those narrow, sturdy hips. _I've been there_ , he thinks. Has to rest his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder, close his eyes, breathe deeply. 

_I've been inside you; I want to do it again._

"John, please", Sherlock murmurs again, his hips giving another tiny push. John is leaning more fully on him now, so his movements are restricted.  
"Please, fuck me". 

Like Sherlock is reading his mind, as ever. John takes another deep breath, tries to ground himself - no, no, he has something to finish first. When he feels more in control, he looks up at Sherlock, lifts a hand to caress the corner of his swollen-red mouth. Sherlock's eyes are open now, black, and huge. 

"Let me finish this first?", as much as he's trying to control his voice, it comes out as a growl. "Yeah? Just a little bit longer?" 

He watches Sherlock's eyes close in understanding and acceptance; the long, dark eyelashes fan over his pale skin. John keeps his right hand firm around his ribcage and his thumb on the left nipple, and moves to the other one. Starts caressing the edge of the pectoral muscle with his tongue; licks in a spiral - _slow, slow_ \- smaller and smaller until he's just near the nipple. Sherlock twitches; hips give another tiny push. 

"Shhhhhhh....", John croons, to ground him; and pushes his own hips more firmly against him to keep him from moving too much. His erection fits in there perfectly; it's as if Sherlock's body was made to take him. _Oh, yes._

One tiny lap over the nipple; then another, slower, over and around it. The tip of John's tongue flicks it; Sherlock inhales suddenly, tenses up. 

"Shhh. Relax, Sherlock...", John stops for a moment to say. He looks at Sherlock's face. His eyes are still closed, he's frowning, holding really tight and still. "Shhhh. Shhh. Give in. Just give in, love. Shhhhh...." 

As much as it looks as if he's in another world Sherlock is listening, and John feels him breathe, feels the muscles in his chest relax a little; so, he latches onto the nipple, and sucks, hard. _Hard hard hard hard._ Sherlock cries out, a loud aah that ends in an exhale and a sob, and he throws his head back as if he can no longer hold it up; John has to keep hold of Sherlock's ribcage firmly with his hands in order not to be bucked off. 

He releases the tight nub, licks over it to soothe it for a moment - then closes his teeth over it, pulls. _Pulls pulls pulls._ Sherlock whimpers loudly at every breath, head still back, muscles in his biceps tight tight tight, almost cramping in the effort to hold his arms still. John can feel Sherlock's heart racing, can feel that he's still trying to obey - give in, let go, take it, feel; one more lick over the nub, then he sucks it into his mouth again, one last time, nurses on the nipple for a few seconds - _fuck, yes_ \- while he flicks the other with his right thumb. 

"John _JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn!_ ", Sherlock almost screams, though it comes out as a helpless prayer. His chest gives a firm jerk, and John lets go - shouldn't let it become too much, past the right side of _intense, tight, yes, yes, mine..._

"Lie back", John urges, lifting up and moving his hand to the centre of Sherlock's chest, pushing down gently but firmly. "Lie back, just like that". Sherlock obviously complies, he's a puddle of warm flesh and nerves and breaths now - and when he's lying back on the table John unfastens his pyjama bottoms, slides them quickly down his thighs and off his legs, knows that Sherlock is not wearing underwear, yes. He frees himself just as quickly, just the time to take himself out, grab the lube, coat himself perfunctorily - Sherlock's legs come up to wrap around his waist, and John guides himself into Sherlock's body, yes. _Fuck yes._

Sherlock is so wound up, so ready that he can just slide in in one long careful thrust, all of him until he's pressed firm against Sherlock's backside; Sherlock moans loudly and arches off the table, beautifully. His body is scorching inside - John has to take a moment to close his eyes, breathe, breathe, _fuck, yes_ \- John is big but he takes it so so wonderfully - _God, yes. Yes. What did I do to deserve this, John thinks, to deserve you. You're perfect. You're just what I want. You love me, I love you, you take all of me, just the way I like it, fuck, how will I ever give back everything you give me?_

Another couple of thrusts, and Sherlock's body convulses, already, untouched because he was so tightly wound that it really doesn't take much, just a couple of strokes from inside, from John's body inside his. He arches his back again, cries out; John stops, feels the contractions, internal muscles spasming around him - _fuck, fuck_ \- thrusts again and again and again and again - table rattling, feet clashing against the floor, _don't fucking care who hears us_ \- and then he also comes, with a long, low moan, thrusting hard into Sherlock, fingers leaving pink imprints on those alabaster hips. He curls forward, over Sherlock's chest; his forehead rests over Sherlock's heart; John lets himself be lulled by Sherlock's ribcage expanding and contracting, slowly, slowly coming down. 

They breathe together; in, out. 

_In. Out._


End file.
